


As If Killing the Bard Impresses Us

by Bones (doctorbones)



Series: Immortality Hex Shenanigans [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Temporary Character Death, immortality hex, repeatedly, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23475160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbones/pseuds/Bones
Summary: Jaskier is still really good at dying. Too good.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Immortality Hex Shenanigans [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688818
Comments: 70
Kudos: 612





	As If Killing the Bard Impresses Us

They wouldn’t shut up. Ciri had stopped listening after the first five seconds of monologuing, and they were now on minute two with no end in sight. At least Jaskier usually had something interesting to say. These guys just went on and on about their genius and what they’d do with a witcher at their disposal and how rich they’d be and blah, blah, blah…

She sat on the cold ground, hands bound behind her back. The shadows of the forest flickered in the light of the campfire. No stars tonight. It was too cloudy and had been for several weeks. Jaskier always struggled with the lack of sun, growing too quiet and too sluggish. Geralt always stuck close to him at the worst of those times. Even Yennefer, who usually only traded insults with the bard, hovered around Jaskier.

“Are you listening?” one of Ciri’s captors growled.

She tore her eyes away from the sky. There were three men, all armed with swords. They bore scars that betrayed a life reveling in violence.

“No,” she said honestly. “Did you ask me something?”

That earned her a backhanded slap. Copper filled her mouth as the inside of her cheek tore on her teeth. It’d bruise. Jaskier would be furious. He worked hard to make sure her skin stayed “like porcelain,” and while she didn’t often indulge in maintaining her appearance, she did like the dresses and cosmetics he bought her. Sometimes the best part of her day was when he did her hair in the mornings and brushed it out in the evenings.

“We’re going to ransom you to the Viscount de Lettenhove,” one of her captors said. He was a stocky man with bushy, black eyebrows.

Ciri was sorely tempted to point out that they’d killed the viscount when they’d ambushed her, but while she wouldn’t have been lying, it wasn’t as though the viscount would stay dead. Jaskier’s immortality hex ensured he wouldn’t die by normal means, much to his chagrin.

Another of the men with a crescent scar on his neck stepped forward. “The viscount wasn’t at his home in Oxenfurt,” he said. “Where is he?”

Probably just down the road. It was well past the time it usually took for Jaskier to reanimate. “No idea.”

Scar glared at her, and Eyebrows lifted a hand to strike her again. She braced herself for the impact, but it never came. The third man, a tall guy with red hair, held Eyebrow’s wrist.

“We heard that you were travelling with the viscount and the White Wolf,” Red said evenly. “I’m sure either would pay well for the Lion Cub of Cintra.”

He was wrong, but Ciri wasn’t about to point that out. Her life rested in them thinking they could get something out of keeping her alive.

The fact was that Geralt and Yennefer were off fighting against Nilfgaard and would be for the next couple days. Ciri and Jaskier had been traveling east toward the mountains to visit some temple that had witcher records. She was only a couple months into her training at this point, and Geralt was often too busy—what with the war—to train her consistently, instead having her read about witchers. Jaskier was her primary trainer, teaching her espionage and hand-to-hand. Neither he nor Geralt would pay a cent for Ciri’s ransom. More likely, they’d tell her to use all the training they gave her to get herself out.

Ciri let the knife she kept in her sleeve fall into her hand. She’d need a couple seconds to cut her binds, which meant keeping them distracted for a while.

“I can’t be certain of the viscount’s whereabouts,” she said carefully, “but he was to meet me in Gulet.”

Red nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll head,” he said. “He should be easy enough to track down. He’s always flashy.”

And he’d toned down his outfit to travel discreetly with her. Fat lot of good that’d done.

The sound of a branch snapping brought her captors’ heads around. She withheld a curse. Her time was up, but Jaskier wouldn’t be able to take on three men without dying again.

“What in the gods’ names?” Eyebrows breathed.

Jaskier stood at the treeline. Blood stained his tunic, the worst of it around his chest where he’d taken a dagger. Said dagger was currently in his hand, dripping with his own blood. The look in his blue eyes was murderous. 

Ciri could use this.

“What is it?” she asked and scanned the trees, as if searching for a threat she couldn’t see.

Jaskier tensed at her voice, but said nothing.

Red glanced back at her. “You don’t see him?”

“See who?” Ciri’s brows furrowed, and she leaned as if trying to peer around one of the men. “I don’t see anyone.”

“We killed him,” Scar murmured, eyes wide. “His spirit is here to take its revenge.”

Ciri gasped. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Eyebrows prompted with rising panic in his voice.

“It’s my guard, isn’t it?” She made her eyes big. Her binds started to give against her wrists. “He was cursed by a witch long ago. She wanted him to be a ghoul in death, to forever roam the earth and consume human flesh.”

Red grimaced. “There’s no way that’s—”

Jaskier let out a gurgling yell, and the men’s faces paled. Ciri bit the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from laughing. 

Her binds broke just as Jaskier lumbered forward. She leapt for the nearest man, tackling him to the ground. It was easy from there to sink her knife into his throat. His blood spurt out and decorated her jacket.

A heavy hand gripped her shoulder, but only for a second. She spun around in time to see Jaskier with an arm around Scar’s neck and a dagger in the man’s back. Eyebrows was tensed to lunge for his comrade, but Ciri pulled her knife from Red’s neck and rushed him before he could take a step. His nails took skin off her arms as she lodged her blade between his ribs. It was only a few seconds until he dropped, choking and gasping.

Jaskier let Scar’s body fall and shook off the blood from his dagger. “You’re improving,” he commented. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Other than some rope burns, I’m fine. How are you?”

“Not terrible. I’ve had worse deaths.” He had one of his soft smiles that lightened his eyes. “I’m glad you’re all right. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d hurt you.”

“Probably the same thing you did here.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “They were going to ransom me to the Viscount of Lettenhove and kept asking me where to find him.”

Jaskier laughed. “How ever did you keep a straight face?”

“I have your training to thank for that, I think.” She looked over his disheveled appearance. “Though I did struggle there at the end. The looks on their faces when you hobbled out of the trees was priceless.”

“A bold move, but effective.” He swept her hair behind an ear. “C’mon. I’m sure they’ve got some clothes we can steal in their bags. Can’t very well wander into town covered in blood.”

Ciri helped him go through the couple bags at the campsite. They found their own bags that the captors had taken in their initial ambush and changed into fresh clothes. Ciri took a couple tunics and food scraps for herself before slinging her bag over her shoulder. Jaskier carried his own with obvious discomfort. His chest wound hadn’t healed up completely, which was unusual, but it wasn’t bleeding.

“You sure you’re all right?” Ciri asked and palpated the area around Jaskier’s wound. It was swollen, but the scabbing indicated it wasn’t life-threatening. Well, nothing really was to Jaskier. She still worried that one day something might be.

“I’ll be fine, dear.” He kissed her forehead. “Let’s go. We’re only an hour or so out from Gulet, and I’d like to have a bed tonight.”

She nodded. It’d been a while since they’d slept in an actual bed, and her back hurt from the lumpy ground. 

They headed into the trees, making a path back to the main road. Ciri kept an eye on Jaskier, her worry clinging to her. It was an unusual feeling. She never had to worry about Jaskier's mortality since he had none, and her concern sat with her like bricks in her stomach. His wound was probably nothing. All the others had been. 

It was probably nothing.

#

Something was different. Jaskier felt it in his wound, in the way it burned. A numbness had settled into his fingers and toes by the time they found an inn at Gulet. 

He got one room with two beds. It looked much the same as any other with scuffed floorboards and tacky, floral wallpaper. He took the bed nearest to the door—always aware that if anything came for them in the night, he had to be Ciri's defense. It didn't matter if he died, but her existence was more impermanent.

She sank onto the other bed and stripped down to her shift and shorts. A bruise was forming on her cheek, easier to see now in the light of the lamp on the nightstand. His flare of anger at the sight dimmed only with the thought that the men who'd dared hurt her were rotting in the woods.

He undressed down to his shorts and slipped under the bedsheets. They smelled faintly of curdled milk, but it was better than sleeping on a bedroll. He turned onto his right side since his left thrummed with the pain of his wound.

It was making it harder to breathe, and the heat underneath his skin felt too much like a fever. It was rapidly sapping his energy in a way that wasn't normal tiredness. Dimly, he thought he was dying again.

"Good night, Jas," Ciri said sweetly.

He barely had time to mumble, "Night." And then he fell into the eternal kind of sleep. 

#

_One week ago..._

Jaskier shivered when Geralt swept gentle fingertips over a long, silvery line at the base of his ribs. They lay in bed together. It was the one they shared at Jaskier's residence in Oxenfurt, big enough to hold four people—though it rarely held more than three. The third was most often Ciri who found comfort between Geralt and Jaskier after her nightmares. Sometimes Jaskier welcomed Yennefer when she wasn’t off kicking puppies and stealing crutches from paraplegics or whatever it was she did. Inviting her into bed always ended with her and Geralt teaming up to reduce Jaskier to a boneless, speechless puddle. 

“How’d you get this one?” Geralt asked while tracing the scar on Jaskier’s ribs with a finger.

“A scuffle with the Countess de Koraff,” Jaskier mumbled. He was still waking up, the comfort of his red silk bedsheets pulling him back to his dreams. His eyelids remained shut, even as the morning sunlight filtered through them.

Geralt shifted beside him, the hard line of his body pressing against the softer form of Jaskier’s. “And why did you get into a scuffle with the countess?”

“I bent her husband over their lake house balcony.” Jaskier yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Delightful fellow. Very flexible. Not very bright, though. His wife was definitely the brains of their winery business.”

Geralt dragged his fingers to another ridge of scar tissue just to the right of Jaskier’s navel. “And this one?”

“A brawl in Temeria. Got into a debate with a young blacksmith who thought you didn’t deserve any praise. She had a terrific arm, very deft fingers.”

“Did you take her to bed, too?”

“Well, I fuck my way into most messes. Might as well fuck my way out of them.” Jaskier opened his eyes then. “And I couldn’t very well let her talk badly about you.”

Geralt rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder, eyes tracking each scar. Most he knew the origins of already, but not all. Sometimes he would pass his hands over them in quiet moments like these. It was rare that he actually asked about them. Jaskier assumed it was because he couldn’t know how many were self-inflicted, and didn’t want to bring attention to them.

Morning light shone through the large, arched windows to one side of the room. Russet alabaster walls made the space feel warm. The white curtains billowed in a soft breeze. Wrought iron formed the bedframe, shaped into curling designs like vines. Fatigued ropes were tied to both ends of the headboard.

“How long have you been awake?” Jaskier asked, noting that the light outside was still dim.

Geralt shrugged. “A couple hours.” 

He braced his hand against the mattress beside Jaskier’s waist and lifted himself. The muscles of his shoulders and arms flexed with the movement, and the way he loomed sent heat shooting down Jaskier’s spine.

“Do you ever sleep, love?” Jaskier asked, even when he knew the answer.

“I don’t need as much as you.” Geralt slid his knee between Jaskier’s thighs. “I’ve been meditating.”

“On what? The shape of my ass?” Even as Jaskier teased, his hands came up to grip the finely sculpted hips above his.

Geralt bore down until their fronts were flush together. “Amongst other things.”

Jaskier’s breath left him when Geralt rolled their hips together. Their lips were inches apart. Geralt was rarely so lewd in the mornings, usually too cranky, but he was supposed to set out today to meet Nilfgaard at the Lyria border. He always took care of Jaskier before he left. It was sweet, in a tragic kind of way. But then, most things with Jaskier were.

The first touch of lips was soft and unhurried, as if Geralt were trying to coax Jaskier into this intimacy. Jaskier didn't need the urging, but he could appreciate taking his time. His fingers wandered down the hard ridges spanning Geralt's back. Warmth built where their bare skin pressed together. Jaskier let the heat and anticipation build until it was coiled tight in his gut, urging him to seek more. Still, he held back, letting Geralt set the pace. This was more for him than Jaskier.

The first brush of tongue at Jaskier's lips drew a moan from him, and he opened for further exploration. Geralt was impossibly gentle in sweeping his fingers across Jaskier's cheek and then cupping the fine curve of bone there. He lingered for a moment before letting his touch wander lower, across shoulder and chest and hip. It was almost reverent.

Jaskier's restraint snapped at the first pass over his nipples. He arched up hungrily, hands and tongue searching for more. In the next instant, his wrists were pinned over his head easily. A groan of frustration and need escaped his throat.

Geralt bore his weight down on the hand he had around Jaskier's wrists. His other hand was busy dipping between Jaskier's thighs, and he hummed his pleasure at the moisture left inside Jaskier from the night before. Gods, this man was too much sometimes.

A knock came at the door. Jaskier tensed immediate, but Geralt just kept pushing his fingers deeper.

"Jas, are you awake?" Ciri asked, voice muffled through the door. 

Geralt nipped a line down Jaskier's throat, heedless of the interruption. 

"Something you need, Ciri?" Jaskier called, trying to keep his voice even.

"Yen's here," she answered. "She brought pastries for breakfast."

Geralt's finger curled, and Jaskier barely caught the cry that threatened to escape him.

"Tell her—" Jaskier bit his lip at the shocks of pleasure that shot up his spine when Geralt pressed harder against that bundle of nerves. "Tell her we'll be out in a minute."

"All right." Ciri's footfalls faded.

Jaskier couldn't hold back his next cry. "Do you want to scandalize the poor girl?" he hissed. "I was trying to— Fuck!"

Geralt licked a hardening nipple as his fingers curled again, and Jaskier's thighs shook. He strained against the hand holding his wrists down futilely. It didn't budge at all.

"You kept your composure," Geralt muttered and kept up his ministrations until Jaskier couldn't even think of a retort.

It was far too long before Geralt slipped his fingers out and grabbed the vial of oil on the nightstand. Jaskier was shaking, his entire body pulsing with the need for more. His cock was hard and leaking despite being untouched.

Geralt slicked himself with the oil before lining himself up. Jaskier kept his hands above his head without Geralt holding them there because it seemed like the thing to do. He was rewarded with a gentle kiss that somehow managed to be deep simultaneously.

The first press into him made him gasp. Geralt took his sweet time, never breaking the kiss as he eased deeper and deeper. Jaskier was trembling by the time their hips pressed flush together. He knew as soon as he felt Geralt's hand on his wrists again that he wasn't leaving this bed for a while.

A pitiful sound escaped him at the first slow thrust. The second was just as slow, and Geralt maintained a pace that let Jaskier feel every inch of him. He licked patterns into the soft skin of Jaskier's neck, drawing every stuttered breath and moan he could. 

Jaskier felt like a string held taut, ready to snap if only he had more. He was about to ask, beg more likely, for Geralt to go faster, but the witcher chose just then to thrust harder. Jaskier's head snapped back. The pace was still slow, but now every push into him made electricity shoot up his spine. And with his hands restrained, all he could do was moan and take it. 

His thighs fell aside as he gave up any control and just let Geralt draw every obscene sound possible from him. He couldn't even form words by the time Geralt picked up his pace. At some point, the hand on his wrists disappeared, but he still didn't move them. Lips seized his. The tongue sliding into his mouth was still slow, but moved with purpose, with possession.

A cry escaped him when strong hands tilted his hips up, and Geralt thrust into him as hard and fast as he wanted. His back arched off the bed. He clamped his knees together against the onslaught of sensation, but they were soon pried apart.

His vision went white as he shattered. The shocks of his climax burst through his limbs and forced an unbidden scream from his chest. Geralt kept pushing into him, drawing out his release until it hurt. Jaskier wouldn't ask to stop. 

It was only a few more thrusts before Geralt was spilling into him. His hips stuttered as he growled his pleasure against Jaskier's throat. By the time he stopped, they were both shaking and panting.

Jaskier whimpered when Geralt pulled out, overstimulated and pleasantly bruised. Geralt gathered him into his arms, and he went limply. They lay in silence while their breathing regained evenness and their hearts slowed.

"I love you," Jaskier murmured because it was true.

Geralt didn’t reply. He never did.

#

_Now…_

Ciri had never seen Jaskier like this. She woke to find him ashen and covered in fever sweat. His wound was more swollen now and vaguely green. His breaths came shallowly.

Ciri knelt at his bedside, clutching his hand because it was all she knew to do.

"What's wrong, Jas?" she asked quickly. "What happened?"

He looked up at her with glazed eyes. "Poison. Their weapons were poisoned. It's in my blood."

She thought of her grandmother, lying mortally wounded with an ashen face and fever sweat. 

"Oh, my darling girl," he said softly. "Don't look at me like that. Poison won't keep me dead."

She tried to find comfort in his words. "How long will you be like this?"

"Hard to say. The poison has to run its course, but it's not meant to be processed bodily. The last time this happened, I died repeatedly over the course of a month. Terribly useless in that time. Very unpleasant stuff." He smoothed her hair back from her face. "You've got to go to the temple on your own. Leave me in the woods. I'll catch up when I'm better."

The thought of him dying over and over, alone in the woods and in agony, was too much to bear. 

"I'm not leaving you, Jas," she said firmly. "If someone found you, you wouldn't be able to fight back."

"I don't need to. I'll survive."

"You'll suffer, and I can't abide by it."

Jaskier stared at her a long moment, and then sighed. "I'm going to burden you while you're on the road. If anything happened to you because you had to take care of me instead of defend yourself, I couldn't bear it."

Ciri recognized a losing battle, and even if Jaskier seemed weak now, he was no stranger to operating through pain. He'd find a way to escape her. But she couldn't just do nothing.

"What if we bleed you?" she suggested. "The poison is in your blood, right? What if we just drain it and then wait for you to reanimate."

He blinked. "I… I suppose. That might just work."

"So you'll try it?"

He nodded hesitantly. "Yes, but if it doesn't work, promise me that you'll leave me behind."

She bit her lip before mumbling, "All right."

He let out a long breath, and his eyes slid closed. "Forgive me, dear, but I'm going to die again." And then his breaths grew harsh. It was a couple seconds before he stopped breathing altogether, and then a couple more until his heart stopped. Blood trickled out his eyes, nose, and a corner of his mouth.

Ciri stood with a sigh and started packing their things.

#

_One week ago..._

Ciri sat on the limestone counters in Jaskier’s kitchen, nibbling on a pączek that Yennefer had brought. It had cherry filling, her favorite. Yennefer had brought a bag full of pączki when she arrived this morning, and now she was sitting beside Ciri, eating her own silently. They both knew by now that Jaskier and Geralt weren’t going to be down any time soon. They always spent the mornings before Geralt had to leave indulging in each other. Yennefer never complained about having to wait, presumably because she respected the ritual for what it was. 

“I have something for you,” she said abruptly and pulled something from a pocket of her skirts.

Ciri’s eyes widened when Yennefer opened her hand to reveal a blue crystalline ring. “It’s so pretty.”

The slightest of smile’s touched Yennefer’s lips. “It’s enchanted, so I’ll be able to find you wherever you are.” She set her pączek on the countertop, so she could slip the ring on Ciri’s index finger.

Ciri lifted her hand to watch how the ring glimmered in the light. “Thank you so much.”

“It’s more for my sanity, but you’re welcome.” Yennefer picked up her pączek again and took a bite of the soft dough. “Did you read those books I gave you?”

“Most of them, but not all. Jaskier and Geralt have been relentless in their training.” Ciri absently rubbed her thumb over the callouses on her palm.

“Your studies are important, too,” Yennefer muttered.

Ciri shook her head. “Jaskier has made me study arithmetic and literature for four hours of every day. I just haven’t been able to study magic consistently on top of his work as well.”

Yennefer hummed tersely, which normally would mean she disapproved, but in this case, Ciri was sure Yennefer was simply considering the validity of the arrangement. Jaskier had been a professor after all and still guest lectured from time to time at Oxenfurt. He knew a thing or two about designing a curriculum.

“Perhaps I’ll have a chat with him about incorporating practical magic knowledge into your studies,” Yennefer said after a moment. “It’s important that you have a broad understanding, especially if you ever face Nilfgaardian mages.”

Ciri shuddered at the thought of facing Nilfgaard, but she was her grandmother’s daughter at heart. The spark of rage in her outmatched any fear she had. If she had her way, she’d see Nilfgaard wiped off the map.

“Control your chaos,” Yennefer murmured, as if reading Ciri’s mind. “You must wait for the right time. For now, focus on getting stronger. Hone your rage. Make it your blade.”

Ciri nodded. When the day came that she faced Nilfgaard again, she wouldn’t be the terrified child that she was before.

They chatted about Yennefer’s travels, taking the time they did have to catch up. Apparently, Yen had been hunting Stregobor for a while and trying to gather what remained of the mages. Stregobor was lurking somewhere around Kovir, she was certain. The mages had fractured, trying to prepare their various kingdoms for what was coming, but they were stronger together than apart.

Almost an hour had passed before Geralt came into the kitchen. He wore a plain tunic and black trousers, not unusual or unkempt. The only indicator of his past activities was the tuft of hair at the back of his head that was tangled from grasping hands. A corner of Yennefer’s lips turned up, and he pointedly didn’t meet her eyes while he grabbed a pączek from the bag on the counter.

“Where’s our bard?” she asked with false innocence.

Geralt bit into his pączek. “Resting.”

“Must have had a rough night.” She trailed her fingers down the back of his neck and hooked them under his collar to reveal a dark spot in his skin. “And morning.”

“Don’t tease.” He took her hand and brought it to the counter, but didn’t take his own hand away.

Ciri glanced at them curiously. She knew that Geralt cared for Yennefer in the same way that he cared for Jaskier. The relationship between Yennefer and Jaskier wasn’t as easily defined. They were more than friends certainly, but not lovers—not in the traditional sense anyway. There was affection there. Ciri saw it in the way Yennefer berated Jaskier while healing his wounds and in how he chastised her recklessness while offering all his resources to her endeavors. “Partners” or “companions” seemed the best descriptor Ciri could come up with, and honestly, their relationship was more stable than most marriages. Even when they were at each other’s throats, there was no doubt that they would have died for the other. Jaskier had before.

“Have you said your goodbyes?” Yennefer asked, voice soft.

Geralt nodded. “You should, too.”

She left her half-eaten pastry on the counter and hopped off. Ciri watched her go, wondering again just what to call the love that Yennefer and Jaskier felt for each other. There were different kinds of love in the world, so it stood to reason that “begrudging” could be one of them.

“How long are you going to be gone this time?” Ciri asked Geralt.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “I don’t know. A couple weeks maybe.”

Her stomach dropped, but she ignored it. He’d been gone for longer before.

“I’ll be back,” he murmured when she didn’t respond.

She chose to believe his words this time because the other option would break her, and when he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer, she leaned into him. The sharp scent of Jaskier’s aftershave clung to his hair, as if he’d been nuzzling the top of his head against Jaskier’s jaw.

“I’ll be all right,” she said and meant it. “We’ll look after each other.”

“I know.” Geralt didn’t need to say so. Jaskier always took care of her, as if she were his daughter, and she’d take care of him.

#

_Now..._

Jaskier woke painfully from his third—fourth?—death today. His head felt like it would explode, and a chill had settled into his bones. The stab wound in his chest burned worse than a hot iron. He was hit with a sense of vertigo that didn’t right even after he realized he was upside down.

His eyes blinked open to stare at an inverted world. Trees stretched in every direction, pointing down like spikes ready to fall. Ciri crouched nearby, tying rope to a tree root. He glanced up at where his ankles were bound. His body was suspended over a tree branch.

“Ciri,” he mumbled hoarsely, making her head snap up. “What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

She finished tying the rope before rushing over to him. “I was hoping you’d still be dead before I started.”

“Well, you’ll probably only have to wait another minute.” He blinked up at her, trying to focus on her face. “Do you intend to bleed me like a cow?”

Her cheeks were red, but that might have been from the cold. “It’s the most efficient way to drain blood.”

A protective urge filled him as he thought about how she might feel about slitting his throat and waiting for him to bleed out. “You don’t have to do this, love. You can just leave me here. I promise I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “I can’t take that chance.”

He was starting to lose consciousness again, the edges of his vision blackening, so before he lost the ability to speak, he rasped, “You’re so stubborn.”

Her hand was warm on his cheek. “I learned from the best.”

And then he died. Again.

#

Geralt knocked back another swig of whatever alcohol Yennefer had thrust in his face. It tasted like kerosene. He couldn’t complain, though, as it kept him from twitching every time the needle passed through the skin of his shoulder. A doctor was stitching him up in a medical tent while Yennefer healed those in more dire need. Soldiers lay on cots in various states of injury. Doctors flitted about. Geralt sat on a stool in the middle of the chaos, watching Yen try to save the splintered remains of some poor bastard’s leg.

Ciri and Jaskier should have been in Gulet by now. Geralt tried not to think about them because his worry would distract him from the fight. Jaskier would protect Ciri, and that he couldn’t die at least eliminated that fear. He just had to have faith that they’d make it on their own. 

As soon as the doctor gave him leave, he trudged out of the tent, only to be greeted with a field of similar tents. Soldiers trotted in formation through the dirt road bisecting camp. Officers shouted orders. It was the normal ambient noise and business, but it abruptly erupted into a flurry when a sentry called out, “They’re retreating! Nilfgaard is retreating!”

Cheers spread through the camp like wildfire. Geralt just went back to his tent near the edges of camp. Nilfgaard was retreating for now, but they’d be back. They were cockroaches, the lot of them. At least he might get to see Ciri and Jaskier sooner.

The tent was just big enough for the two cots inside. He slumped into the one on the right and was asleep before his head hit the bedding.

#

_One week ago..._

Geralt held Jaskier to him, appreciating the feel of their bare skin together. He didn’t cling to memories of sex when he left, contrary to what their parting ritual would suggest, but he loved to take Jaskier apart, to leave him sated and pliant. It was almost an apology for having to go in the first place.

But it wasn’t about memories. Geralt clung to far less dramatic things when he felt the distance between them. He thought of Jaskier’s humming when he did Ciri’s hair. He thought of the little smile Jaskier got whenever Geralt brought him a new book of poetry. He thought of the soft, reverent words Jaskier whispered under the cover of night.

_I love you._

Maybe Geralt would find the courage one day to say it back, but admitting it seemed like too much, too harsh a reality to confront. The fact was that Jaskier would probably long outlive him. And he’d become a memory among the backdrop of several centuries worth. What did love even mean in the face of that?

“Haven’t I written enough sonnets about you?” Jaskier mumbled. “Must you fill my head with more?”

“I thought you liked when I filled you,” Geralt teased with a wry smile.

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Naughty.”

Geralt chuckled and pulled Jaskier closer. They fell into comfortable silence, which was how Geralt knew that he’d done well. Jaskier only ever shut up when he was thoroughly satisfied.

“We’re going to make Yen mad,” he said abruptly. “We’re well past fashionably late already.”

Geralt kissed Jaskier briefly—or he tried to. Jaskier arched up to slot their lips together, and then his fingers were tangled in Geralt’s hair. The kiss went on longer than their normal ones. Geralt was in no rush to end it, taking as much time as he could.

“I think I’ve kept you to myself long enough,” Jaskier whispered when he pulled away. “You’ve got responsibilities.”

Geralt kissed him again. “Not coming with?”

Jaskier smiled. “In a little bit. I need to clean myself up. You always make a mess of me.”

“Complaints?”

“Absolutely not.”

Geralt reluctantly slipped out of bed and pulled a tunic and trousers from the closet. Jaskier watched him with sinful eyes as he dressed, and Geralt was sorely tempted to return to bed. It was with difficulty that he left.

Yennefer and Ciri were in the kitchen, sitting on the countertop with pączki in their hands. They were chatting about different kinds of magic, but stopped when he stepped in. Yennefer fixed a knowing look on him. He ignored her and grabbed a pastry from the bag on the counter.

“Where’s our bard?” she asked with that falsely sweet voice she used when teasing him.

Geralt bit into his pączek. It was filled with almond paste. “Resting.”

“Must have had a rough night.” She trailed her fingers down the back of his neck and hooked them under his collar to reveal a dark spot Jaskier has sucked into his skin the night before. “And morning.”

“Don’t tease.” He took her hand and brought it to the counter. She didn’t resist as he held it there, feeling the faint warmth of her thumb as it swept over the back of his hand.

Their relationship had improved in the past few months they’d looked after Ciri. She’d fallen into a maternal role almost immediately, for which he was grateful. Maybe she would finally give up her pursuit for a baby.

“Have you said your goodbyes?” she asked as gently as she ever managed.

Geralt nodded. He never really bid Jaskier farewell, hating the finality of it, but Jaskier knew his love inside and out. That was what mattered. 

“You should, too,” he said, knowing she’d want to see him privately even if she’d never admit as much.

She set her pączek on the counter and hopped down. Geralt wondered what she’d talk about with him. He allowed them their privacy, and if he really wanted to know what went on when he wasn’t there, he was sure they’d tell him. But he never asked. They’d tell him the important things.

“How long are you going to be gone this time?” Ciri said abruptly.

He knew that if he looked at her, he’d see her worry, so he stared ahead. “I don’t know. A couple weeks maybe.” His words were met with silence, so he added, “I’ll be back.”

When she still didn’t respond, he pulled her closer, sliding her across the countertop. She leaned into him with a sigh.

“I’ll be all right,” she said softly, as if he was the one who needed reassurance. “We’ll look after each other.”

“I know.” 

Jaskier would protect her, even if it killed him, so Geralt didn’t worry about her. He worried more about Jaskier. The impetuous bard didn’t care for his own pain in the slightest.

“He’ll never hesitate to sacrifice himself for you,” Geralt said. “If it’s not necessary, please don’t let him.”

She offered a smile. “I’ll protect him from himself.”

“Protect who from himself?” Jaskier asked as he stepped in. “You’re not talking about me, are you?”

“What’s there to talk about?” Ciri shot back. “We have far more interesting topics of conversation.”

Jaskier clutched his chest and then glowered at Geralt.

“What? I didn’t teach her that,” Geralt muttered and nibbled his pączek.

Jaskier shook his head and grabbed a pastry from the bag. He wore one of his bright red tunics and trousers tight enough to show off every curve of his legs and ass, as if he were trying to tempt Geralt again. He might have been.

“Where’s Yen?” Ciri asked, leaning slightly to look through the empty doorway.

Jaskier shrugged. “Puttering around my library. She wants to change Ciri’s academic curriculum, and I think it’s worthwhile.”

Geralt’s and Ciri’s brows lifted.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Jaskier grumbled. “Yen and I can be civil.”

“Evidently,” Ciri said and took a bite of her dwindling pączek.

Jaskier sat on the counter beside her and ate his own. “I hope you know I wouldn’t get hurt if I could help it. I know you don’t like when I’m in pain.”

Geralt stilled, his pączek mid-way to his mouth. He wished Jaskier avoided suffering for his own sake, but he’d take any reason. “Ciri doesn’t like it either.”

“Oh, the guilt trip. Well played.” Jaskier’s tone was light, but Geralt didn’t doubt the message had gotten across. He’d just have to trust that Jaskier would be all right.

#

_Now..._

Yennefer wasn’t surprised to find Geralt passed out in their tent when she stepped in. He’d taken a flaming arrow to the shoulder, and if not for his healing ability, he probably would have needed more than a few stitches. As it was, he was exhausted. She also felt the pressing weight of fatigue on her back.

But they were done here for now.

“Geralt,” she said and shook his shoulder.

His eyes snapped open immediately. He looked up at her and groaned. “What?”

“The camp is starting to disband,” she explained, ignoring his rudeness for now. “We can leave. Do you want me to leave you with Jas and Ciri?”

“Yes.” He sat up with a wince. “They should be around Gulet.”

She nodded. “They are. I can sense Ciri on the outskirts.”

He got to his feet and grabbed his bag sitting beside the cot. Yennefer grabbed her own before leading them outside. Making a portal took what little energy she had left. It opened to a thick spread of trees. She took Geralt’s hand as they stepped through.

She expected to hear Ciri say that they were back early or to hear Jaskier singing while he made a fire. She did not expect the scene she was actually meant with.

Ciri was hunched over Jaskier’s pale body, cradling his head in shaking arms. The scent of blood hung thick in the air. A long line cut through the carotid artery in Jaskier’s neck, and dried blood stained the side of his face. Ciri was sobbing.

Yennefer’s breath froze in her lungs. Geralt moved first. He crouched beside Ciri and gripped her shoulder.

“Ciri, what happened?” he demanded, making her flinch.

“He was poisoned.” She wouldn’t look away from Jaskier’s face. “It was in his blood. He kept dying over and over, and he told me to leave him behind. But he would have been dying for weeks. I couldn’t… I had to do something.”

Geralt glanced at the rope still hanging from a tree branch and the open cut in Jaskier’s neck. Yennefer put it together as he did, her panic rising a notch.

“It’s been almost two days,” Ciri rasped. “He won’t wake up.”

Geralt swept a hand through Jaskier’s hair and didn’t speak.

“Ger,” Yennefer said softly. “You’ve seen dead bodies before. He’s been gone two days, but there’s no smell, no sign of decay.”

Geralt still didn’t speak, so she knelt to his side. The look in his eyes was cold and wild.

“Geralt? Geralt, look at me.”

He slowly turned his gaze to her.

“Two-day-old bodies don’t look like this,” she reminded him gently. “Give him some more time. Right now, we need to focus on setting up camp and resting.”

He looked down at Jaskier again. A heartbeat passed before he stood and stalked into the trees. Yennefer slid closer to Ciri.

“He’s never stayed dead this long,” Ciri rasped. “He always gets back up.” She let out a shuddering breath. Tear tracks stained her fair cheeks.

“You couldn’t have known,” Yennefer said.

“Did I kill him?” Ciri looked up with such despair in her eyes that Yennefer felt her heart break. “Did I kill him, Yen?”

Yennefer wrapped her arms around Ciri, but she couldn’t offer any honest reassurances. The truth was that she didn’t know if Jaskier would recover. Evidence suggested he wasn’t the normal sort of dead, but that might have been because of the magic within him, rather than the impermanence of his demise.

“I’ve got him,” Yennefer said as she gently gathered Jaskier’s body into her arms.

Ciri let him go reluctantly and wiped at her eyes.

“Can you gather some medicinal herbs—the ones I showed you last month?” Yennefer asked, just to give Ciri something to do. “A few grow in this area.”

Ciri nodded and got to her feet shakily. She disappeared into the trees, leaving Yennefer alone with Jaskier. The silence was crushing. It was never silent with Jaskier.

Yennefer stared at him, waiting for a quip that wouldn’t come. She would have done anything to hear him say just how soft she’d gone that she was clutching his body and praying for the color to return to his face. He was such a bastard for making her eyes sting.

“You better not stay dead,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t leave Ciri with that. She deserves better. You need to come back, so you can teach her your stupid poetry and arithmetic. She looks up to you.”

She smoothed a thumb over his cheek. His skin was so cold.

“Come back.”

#

_One week ago..._

When Yennefer went up to see Jaskier, he was pulling on those tight trousers she’d gotten him two months ago—as a joke, of course. How was she supposed to know he’d love them or that he’d wear them whenever she came over? Unforeseen circumstances surely.

A map of scars littered his bare torso. Two circular ones on his gut and shoulder marked where he’d taken arrows to shield her. She found herself passing her fingertips over them whenever he and Geralt took her to bed, and she had kissed the self-inflicted lines on the inside of his thigh more times than one. She almost felt bad that he was compelled to hide them, that they were a source of shame. But she’d never say that. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know.

“Do you not know how to knock?” he muttered as she watched him gather a flaming red tunic from the bed and pull it on.

She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not as though I’ve not seen every part of you. Besides, there’s not much to look at.”

The bastard arched a brow and cocked a hip, putting his lithe figure on display. She only looked a little.

“Did you come up here just to insult me or for something else?” he asked. “I’d be fine either way. I’d just like to know.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I actually wanted to talk about Ciri’s magic lessons, or lack thereof.”

His brows furrowed. “She doesn’t have as much magical talent as you. I’d rather teach her practical things.”

“I’m not saying that she should become a mage, but she’s going to be facing them. She needs to know how to defend against them.” As it was, Ciri wouldn’t stand a chance against a mage with intent.

Jaskier nodded. “I see your point. If you pick out some reading materials, I can craft some lessons. Better yet, you might want to visit more frequently to teach her yourself.”

That wasn’t an invitation she ever expected to hear from him. “You want me to visit more often?”

“I never said that. I said you might want to teach her yourself more often.” His lips twitched. “Your head is big enough without your delusions to inflate it.”

“Well, you would know how to stroke an ego. If only you knew how to stroke anything else.”

His eyes darkened. “Is that a challenge?”

“Isn’t it always?”

“Next time then. I’m afraid I’m….out of commission.” He started to head past her, but she caught his arm, stopping him. He looked up at her curiously.

“And there will be a next time?” she prompted, her voice low.

He normally would have made a comment on her clinginess, but his eyes softened as he muttered, “Only if you don’t get yourself blown up, and I know how difficult that is for you.”

It was a barb, but there was no malice in his eyes.

“That’s rich coming from someone I’ve saved from certain death,” she shot back, but her tone was gentle.

“Uncertain death,” he corrected. “I’ve yet to die with any finality.”

A weird mix of feelings welled in her at the reminder. His immortality hex was sustained by suffering, and so long as he remained a depressed mess, he’d remain with them. Sometimes she worried that he’d be too happy one day and return to being as mortal as the rest of them. And wasn’t that the worst irony? The moment he found something worth living for, he’d more easily lose it.

She let him continue out of the room without another word. They’d said what they needed to. 

If he never broke his hex, then he would almost certainly live beyond her and Geralt. If he did break it, then he would almost certainly die before them. Tragic ironies all the way down.

She just hoped Ciri wouldn’t have to confront that any time soon.

#

_Now..._

Ciri sat in the fields outside the temple, watching the clouds roll through the mountains. An expanse of green grass and flowers of all colors surrounded her. It was peaceful—or it was supposed to be. Her thoughts always drifted back to Jaskier.

Four days. He hadn’t awoken in four days.

Yennefer had portaled them to the temple yesterday and had decided to stick around, postponing her other plans for now. Geralt hadn’t spoken much, which wasn’t unusual, but his silences were different, heavier. They sucked the air out of a room. He wouldn’t look at Ciri either, and that made her guilt all the worse.

She should have done as Jaskier said and left him behind. His ability to reanimate had become such a fixed fact in her mind that she hadn’t even thought that he might not one day. And now he was dead

“Is this spot taken?”

She looked up to see Yennefer and shook her head. Yennefer sat down in the grass. They stared at the roll of the mountains for a moment in silence.

“We thought this day might come,” Yennefer said abruptly, breaking the quiet. “I kept trying to prepare for it, but… Well, there’s no preparing for this, is there?”

Ciri’s eyes stung again, but the tears didn’t fall. “Do you think Geralt will ever forgive me?”

Yennefer wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “He’s not angry with you, my dear. He’s angry with himself.”

Ciri’s brows furrowed. “Why? It wasn’t his fault.”

“Sometimes regret hurts as bad as grief. We all took Jas’ immortality hex for granted. Geralt has to live with all the things he never said and all the things he never did for Jas.” Yennefer’s eyes lowered. “We assumed that we’d go before he did. That was a mistake we’ll never rectify now.”

Ciri’s jaw clenched. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she was silent. Yennefer didn’t try to continue talking. They sat together for several minutes, watching the clouds pass by. The stillness was only broken when a priest ran up to them.

“My ladies,” he greeted between harsh breaths. “It’s the cursed one you brought. He stirs.”

Ciri was being pulled through a portal in the next instant. Yennefer had dragged her into the catacombs below the temple. The cold, gray bricks lining either wall held ancient bones behind them. An altar on one side of the room held a flickering pyre. And on a slab of stone near the middle lay Jaskier.

He had some color to his skin now, but he still looked ashen. His jaw moved ever so slightly, clenching as if he were in pain. Ciri rushed to his side and took his hand. The tears were back, and she couldn’t stop them.

When his eyes opened, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. 

“My dear,” he murmured, voice raw and airy. “Why are you crying?”

She flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, and sobbed. His heart beat against her ear, and it was better than any song he’d sung her. His arms weakly came up to hold her. He whispered soothing words into the top of her head.

A minute passed until she’d collected herself enough to pull away. She clutched his hand to her chest.

“You’ve been dead for four days,” she rasped. “We thought… I thought I…”

His eyes widened. “Oh, my darling girl. I’m so sorry.” He pulled her into another embrace, cradling her head against his shoulder while she cried. “I’m never leaving you. I promise.”

She let the warmth of his body ease her. This was real. He was alive again and just the same. 

It was another minute until she straightened, and then gentle hands were at her shoulders, pulling her back. She looked up to see Yennefer staring elsewhere. Ciri followed her gaze to the door across the room. Geralt stood in the archway, staring at Jaskier.

Ciri let herself be pulled back as Geralt came forward. He didn’t seem happy, yellow eyes as intense as they were when he was stalking a monster. She thought he might be angry until he pulled Jaskier into his arms and held tightly.

They didn’t speak, but the way Geralt’s breath left him in a shaky rush and Jaskier’s answering press closer was a language all its own. And when Jaskier did start to speak, Geralt relaxed by degrees.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Geralt pressed his face into Jaskier’s neck and breathed deeply. “Don’t do that to me again.”

Jaskier pulled away just enough, so their eyes met. He cradled Geralt’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Geralt leaned forward until their lips connected. The moment seemed too intimate for Ciri’s eyes, even though she’d seen them kiss many times before. But it’d never been like this—desperate and clinging.

“I should be the one apologizing,” Geralt said when they pulled apart.

Jaskier’s brows lifted. “Whatever for?”

Geralt swept his fingertips over the scarred cut Ciri had made in Jaskier’s neck. He didn’t speak, just stared at the scar.

“Geralt?” Jaskier prompted.

“I love you.”

Jaskier tensed. He pushed Geralt’s chin up until their eyes met. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t need to.” Jaskier’s expression softened with a smile. “But I am happy to hear it.”

Geralt fisted his hands in Jaskier’s shirt and pulled them into another kiss.

“C’mon,” Yennefer whispered next to Ciri’s ear. “Let’s give them some privacy.”

Ciri let herself be portaled away.

#

Geralt carried Jaskier through the temple to the living quarters the priests had given them. Jaskier was so weak. Blood loss left a normal human faint, but Jaskier had been drained entirely. His lengthy time dead was probably spent regaining his blood steadily. Geralt had suspected as much, but that hadn’t stopped him from fearing the worst. What would he have done if Jaskier had died permanently? 

It had been foolish to think that Jaskier was invincible. There was always the possibility that his hex would wear away or he'd break it himself. Geralt knew that. It just hadn't yet. And maybe it was still as strong as ever, but that wasn't the point. A day without Jaskier felt like too long. Four had been an eternity. And Geralt hadn't said everything he wanted, had let himself take Jaskier's immortality for granted. It was stupidity and cowardice that had stayed his tongue.

He'd paid for it in full.

“You’re thinking too much,” Jaskier muttered as Geralt laid him on the bed in the little room he’d been given.

A breeze came through the open window and ruffled the brown curls atop Jaskier’s head. He looked alive again, no longer deathly pale or unnaturally still. That didn’t stop Geralt from feeling like this was all a cruel illusion.

“I’m here,” Jaskier said, as if sensing Geralt’s thoughts. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt was starting to understand why Yennefer had fucked Jaskier the first time she thought he’d died. Touch was something tangible to hold onto. It made things seem more real, and Geralt didn’t resist the urge to straddle Jaskier’s hips and press their chests together.

“Is there something about people almost dying that gets you and Yen going?” Jaskier asked with an amused smile. “Not that I’m complaining.”

His smile dropped when he met Geralt’s eyes.

“What do you need, Ger? I’ll give it to you.”

Geralt dropped his head until their lips brushed. “I need you.”

Jaskier closed the distance between them. His heart raced a little too fast, and his breaths were a little too heavy. But he kissed fiercely. Geralt breathed him in, the scent a combination of lavender and sage and something uniquely Jaskier. It’d smelled wrong when he was dead, muted and stale.

Geralt couldn’t strip them of their clothes fast enough. He needed to feel skin on skin, to bathe in Jaskier’s living warmth. His fingers found the newest scars. There was one on his chest now, presumably where he’d been hit by whatever weapon had poisoned him. And then there was the one on his neck that Ciri had inflicted with surgical precision. He’d insisted on teaching her about anatomy.

“Don’t,” Jaskier cautioned. “Don’t think about them.”

Geralt kissed the scar on Jaskier’s chest first, wishing he could have stopped the blade that’d made it. The fingers in his hair pulled slightly when he started licking a path lower. His lips unerringly found the neat, parallel lines along the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the pain in them. How blood would have seeped out more and more until oblivion came.

Jaskier tightened on Geralt’s hair at the first brush of lips on his half-hard cock. Geralt felt the dull pain of it down to his toes. It was blessedly real, and when he took Jaskier in his mouth, the heat and weight on his tongue grounded him more. There was familiarity to this. It was easy to validate its existence when he could compare it to the past.

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier said breathlessly. “You don’t— Gods! You don’t need to indulge me.”

Geralt responded by taking him deeper, eliciting a groan he’d heard a hundred times. He didn’t stop until he felt Jaskier’s thighs shake and heard his breaths grow uneven. By the time Geralt kissed his way back up to Jaskier’s lips, they were both desperate and graceless. The hands at Geralt’s back were weaker than normal in drawing lines into his skin, and he mindlessly ground his hips down.

There was no finesse when he leaned over the bed’s edge to grab the vial of oil in his bag, and there was even less dexterity in slicking his fingers to press inside himself. Jaskier watched him with wide eyes. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to think about what he was doing—the only thing in his mind the need for more feeling, more doing, more Jaskier. He barely prepared himself enough before coating Jaskier’s cock. The slide in burned, and he hoped he’d feel it the next day. 

Jaskier’s hands came up to pull his face down. Their lips met with a ferocity they rarely shared outside of post-monster fights when adrenaline made them clumsy and urgent. They only broke apart when Geralt started moving his hips, and the air left Jaskier like it’d been punched from him.

Geralt didn’t give himself time to adjust. He moved to feel the fullness in him, to indulge in Jaskier’s aliveness. And when Jaskier gripped his waist and thrust up, he didn’t stop the groan that escaped him. The bard was known for his sexual prowess, almost as much as his music, so Geralt wasn’t surprised that the fullness in him soon transformed into a more precise pleasure. Jaskier needed only adjust his hips a few times to get the right angle.

It was overwhelming, as Geralt had hoped it would be. He buried his face in Jaskier’s neck and let himself just feel everything. Every brush of skin. Every place they shared warmth. Every thrust into him. He wanted it burned into him, to know it as here and now.

A hand wrapped around his cock eventually, making him have to muffle his voice in Jaskier’s skin. He was embarassingly close already. His release curled at the base of his spine, and when he gave a short word of warning, Jaskier thrust harder and faster.

Geralt bit into Jaskier’s shoulder as he came, muffling the choked growl that escaped him. His climax burned up his spine until he was shaking with it, and Jaskier kept thrusting until the pulses died. His hips stilled before the sensation could turn painful.

“Keep going,” Geralt breathed.

Jaskier didn’t move. “You’re going to be very sensitive.”

Geralt started moving his hips again, heedless of the painful pangs that came with. “I don’t care.”

Jaskier didn’t need to be told again. He gripped Geralt’s hips and set a slow pace. It was only when Geralt impatiently ground on him faster that he picked up speed.

Only a few thrusts in, Jaskier’s breath stuttered, and his moans pitched higher. He tried to pull out, but Geralt sank down and took over. They moved together until Jaskier couldn’t keep an even pace anymore. His nails bit crescents into Geralt’s thighs as he came, leaving marks that would be there tomorrow.

They were still for a long moment, sharing each other’s air, until Geralt found the will to lay beside Jaskier. His thighs ached, and he dimly hoped they would for a while. Jaskier turned just enough to capture Geralt’s lips again, this kiss less rushed and tasting vaguely of gratitude.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier whispered. “Not even death could keep me from you.”

Geralt pulled him closer. “I’m not willing to take that chance.”

Jaskier had no reply to that, and Geralt didn’t need one.

#

Yennefer had portaled them back out into the fields. Ciri wiped at her damp cheeks, but she no longer felt the crushing weight of guilt or grief. Jaskier was alive. He'd never been in any real danger. Still, seeing him so lifeless for that long has been excruciating. She suspected his bloodless form would haunt her nightmares for years.

“They’ll come out on their own time,” Yennefer said and squeezed Ciri’s shoulder, a small comfort, but appreciated.

“Are you fine with that?” Ciri asked. “Shouldn’t you be in there with them?”

Yennefer shrugged. “They’ll call for me, if they want, but this is something they need to sort out on their own.” Her lips twitched. “Well, maybe it has been sorted out.”

When she sat in the grass, Ciri plopped down next to her. “Do you feel like he’ll be dead again if you look?”

Yennefer didn’t answer immediately. “Yes.”

“Does that feeling ever go away?”

“No.” Yennefer stared out at the clouds. “It never really does.”

“Why?”

“Because, my dear, that’s the price of love.”


End file.
